A bonk on the head, emergency rooms and laughter ... life is about what you don’t see coming

By Mary Kay Roth

Leaving a friend’s house earlier this week, I whizzed around a blind corner just outside their front door and bonked my head on a low-hanging roof’s edge. Man, it hurt, but I forged ahead and hopped into my car to drive home.

A couple blocks later I realized something warm was running down my face,  the side of my head, and when I reached up to check – my hand was covered in blood. Grabbing a blanket from the passenger’s seat, I attempted to put pressure on my head while driving a stick shift … then determined I needed to find the nearest emergency room. 

Now, I pause here for a moment in my blog to try and remember exactly what I was thinking about when I came zooming out of that house – all the bits and bobs, odds and ends of a worrisome brain: An impending-scary-new president, the brutality of California wildfires, strategies to stop my dog from jumping up on people, how to help friends hurting from broken health, Ukraine and drones, tariffs and debt limits, the always-daunting task of stowing away holiday decorations.  

But I can definitely tell you the one thing I wasn’t worried about: Ramming my head into a roof and landing in a very crowded emergency room. 

So, I’ll start with this handy tip. You can get fast-tracked into an ER exam room when you walk into the place looking like a zombie, blood caked through your hair and over your face.

I would also add another tip. When you stop by the ER at night, always expect a bit of the odd and unusual.

My visit began with a very kind but very beginner nurse who sat me on an exam table and decided the best way to clean out my hair – so the doc could unearth the wound – was to pour water over my head, soaking all my clothes as well as all the sheets on the ER table. Whoa. 

Eventually an efficient, wise and likely overworked physician arrived to examine my head, determining the necessary appropriate medical protocol.  But his probing fingers re-opened my head wound.  

Hence, the nurse re-doused my head with water, then attempted some sort of makeshift compress with a thick rubber band winding around my head that kept popping off.  I volunteered to hold the gauze myself.

At some point the doctor returned holding up a very visible syringe and staple gun, at which point I finally admitted I was just a little scared.

“Why?” the doc asked in amazement, then proceeded to work his magic. 

A couple hours after arriving – after a tetanus shot, many shots of lidocaine and five staples – I was numb, soggy and ready to go home. 

“You’re fine to take a shower and gently wash the blood out of your hair,” the doc advised.

“But what can’t I do?” – I asked.

He paused for a moment. “I wouldn’t go scuba diving.”

Ultimately, wearing a dry pair of hospital sweats, I gingerly walked back to my car, plopped down upon a seat of dried blood and started to laugh.

I think I’m writing this blog to figure out why.

Of course, there were plenty of people in the ER room that night who would not be going home nearly as quickly as I was – plenty of people without insurance and without easy access to health treatment.  I’ve had some whopping headaches over the past few days, but quality medical care has already commenced the healing.  

I was lucky. Ultimately, on that fateful ER night, I found my way home, safe and sound, a place untouched by fire or horrific smoke, a place offering a hot shower and a cup of tea.

Lessons learned?  

My kids roll their eyes when I tell them the universe tries to send you messages. But I truly believe when you don’t listen to that gentle, cosmic tap on the shoulder – ultimately you get a bop on the head.

The trick, of course, is to heed the call.

Over the past few months I’ve attempted to calculate strategies for surviving the next four years of possible calamity, exploring ways to salvage a spirit ragged from the injustices of humankind.

News flash, I don’t believe charging through life – while weighed down with apprehension and unease – is gonna help much.  Because living is almost never what you fret about and almost always what you never see coming. 

Possible new course of action?

There’s an old movie called Broadcast News in which a main character sets aside a certain number of minutes daily – with a timer – and forces herself to cry.

Perhaps I need that kind of contained worry.

Or maybe I need to wear a helmet.  Body armor.

I know this much: For New Year’s this year there will be no huge proclamations or resolutions.  Mostly I’m promising to worry less, laugh more, quiet my soul and – good grief – slow down.

Because when you charge ahead spinning around unknown corners, you very well might plow into low-hanging obstacles. 

But when you brake, decelerate and pause, you’re just as likely to find the beauty of a sunrise – someone with open arms to give you a hug – the melody of a favorite song – a grandchild’s smile – the love of a friend – a crackling fireplace – your dog’s soulful eyes.

Singer Billie Eilish tells us: “There are always going to be bad things. But you can write it down and make a song out of it.”

Or write it down and make a blog out of it.

Or – staples out in 10 days – just go scuba diving.

A look back with interest and love

5 Women Mayhem is pausing on this early January day to reflect on a year in which we wrote about wintering, our angst about some of our Nebraska leaders’ decisions, the prairie and a few of our favorite things and places. We had some things to say about how language matters, about our public schools, politics, power and rain. We told you about our mishaps, imperfect moments and the search for light, when darkness fell on us. We ended the year with our revelations about self-therapy. Thank you all for coming along in 2024. And stick with us in 2025. We’re not sure what and how, but the new year is bound to be interesting.

 

In the meantime, enjoy with us a look back at a few excerpts from the past year. 

Marilyn Moore, The Secret Bookshelf, Feb. 22, 2024:

Among the books that have been banned the most are classics.  To Kill a Mockingbird.  Catcher in the Rye.  The Diary of Anne Frank.  Is there a reader anywhere who hasn’t paused to think about justice after reading To Kill a Mockingbird?  Or a teenage boy anywhere who hasn’t found himself somewhere in the pages of Catcher in the Rye?  Or a student learning about WWII who hasn’t felt it all up close and personal after reading the story of Anne Frank?  Or who hasn’t pondered the future of the world after reading 1984 or Brave New World?  I get it, to some readers these books may have been dull, or uninteresting.  But is that a reason to ban them?

No, these books aren’t banned because they’re dull or uninteresting.  They’ve banned because they made somebody uncomfortable, or they caused someone to think they would make a student uncomfortable.  They make me uncomfortable, too.  Shouldn’t a miscarriage of justice make us uncomfortable?  Shouldn’t we vow “Never again,” when we read Anne Frank’s story?  Shouldn’t we be nervous about how easily truth can become lies and lies can become truth?  Of course we should, that’s what education is…to confront knowledge we didn’t know, and expand our understanding of the world in the process. 

Mary Kay Roth, The Darkness of a January Night, January 8, 2024:

As dusk settles early on these January evenings, something quietly shifts inside as we pull winter nights around us like a warm, frothy comforter, diving into the deep cozy cave of hibernation.

Sadly, from childhood on, darkness gets a bad rap, a scary monster to approach with shivers and trepidation. Look up “dark” in a Thesaurus and you’ll find words like bleak, dismal, dreary. 

If we truly allow winter to be our teacher, however, the darkness of a January night asks us to hug close – retreat and rest – discover its gifts and magic. Behind all the dark, long nights and cold winter mornings, there is something incredibly beautiful happening.  

Our bodies heal and grow in the dark while we sleep. Dreams dance in the dark. Music sounds infinitely better with lights off.  And throughout the coming months we will marvel at the unfailing human ability to find light in the middle of the darkest season.

JoAnne Young, Words to the Wise (Women), April 6, 2024:

Language is the next frontier that needs to be conquered in equalizing genders. It can tell us about the nature and extent of the inequality of women.

Power. Control of our own lives. Our own bodies. We are still struggling from centuries of limited power and limited control. There are people now – politicians, lawmakers, judges, influencers, swaths of the influenced – who would drag us back into the dark ages, who would decide how we should behave, spend our time, walk, talk, dress, and wear our hair. 

 Sticks and stones may break your bones but, as many scholars will tell you, words actually can hurt you. The link between language and culture is forever entangled, Montell says, and continues to reflect and reinforce power structures and social norms. The time has come, she says, to challenge how and why we use language the way we do. That means questioning the words we speak every day. And the words used, even when someone thinks they are being supportive. 

Penny Costello, A Few of our Favorite Vacation Sites and Sights, “There’s No Place Like Home,” April 22, 2024:

There are a lot of places in the world I have yet to see, and I do hope to see them before I’m through. I’ve had the pleasure of living in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, in Colorado, in Minnesota, and here in Nebraska. And I’ve found much to love and appreciate about all of those landscapes. 

But I’m a mountain girl at heart. And that started with my great good fortune of being born and raised in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The ranch I grew up on was ten miles north of Rapid City, and eight miles east of the foothills. I gazed upon them every day. To the north, I could see and feel Bear Butte, or Mato Paha to the Lakota, a long dormant volcano that juts up out of the prairie and is sacred to the Cheyenne and Lakota People. I grew up not only seeing but feeling those mountains in my soul. 

My grandmother used to drive us kids through the hills, showing us where our grandfather would drive his cattle in the summer to graze. Once in a while, my mom would say to me with a twinkle in her eye, “Let’s go play tourist!” And we’d spend the day driving through the hills, visiting attractions, and loving that time together.

My memories are filled with time spent camping with family, and hiking with my friends. And as I got older, I learned about the complex history of white settlement of the area, the displacement of Native tribes that had been there for thousands of years, and the spiritual power and significance of that place.

Mary Reiman, A Few of Our Favorite Things, “Making Rolls,” February 12, 2024:

I love making rolls. I love the process as much as the product. Maybe more. 

The recipe was given to me long ago, in my first year of teaching. It was a perfect Saturday activity because it includes a beginning and an end, with a final product. In teaching, we finish a semester, or a year, and send students on their way, often wondering how they are doing, or where they have landed in life. In baking, I see the result of my work. 

There is no mixer or bread machine involved in this recipe. I use my hands to get the right consistency before punching the dough (OK...maybe there’s a bit of aggression alleviated at that point). The stickier the dough, the better. Watching it rise, getting out the rolling pin, cutting and shaping, and then brushing with butter (because everything really is better with butter). There’s nothing quite like the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through the house. 

As important as the baking, is sharing with others. Packaging them and rushing off to deliver while they are still warm. It’s my way of letting friends know they are important to me. 

Sharing the love and joy of something made by the hand, and from the heart. 

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